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glory of his victory.
And let the butter-milk ſo churn‘d,
upon the dunghill lie,
Not knowing otherwiſe than he
had kill’d the cog outright,
Thus mony men miſtaken be,
comparing white to white,
But at laſt the woman came,
and to her huſband went,
Then like a kind and loving wife
ſhe told him her intent,
She ſaid, good huſband, do come in,
my father is in bed.
Alas! ſaid he, ill luck hath been,
and I am almoſt dead.
The white dog on the dunghill lay,
and I miſtook the mark,
I took him for a pot of whey,
as well I night in the dark.
He faſten’d on me in ſuth ſort,
that ſore he hath me bit,
Poor man, ſaid ſhe, I’m ſorry for ’t,
but let me tell you yet,
A pot of butter-milk ſat
upon the dunghill there.
And, ’cauſe you ſhould not it forget,
I ſpread a cloth moſt fair.
Alas! ſaid he, I saw it not,
ſure good luck I have none.
For ſure it was the butter-milk pot
that I ſo beat upon.
